Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

N A T
A
month goes by. Then another. Thanksgiving comes
and goes. Teaching keeps me busy during the days,
and Sloane, Mojo, and my art keep me busy at night.
I started painting again. Not the meticulous landscapes I
used to do, but abstracts. Bold, violent slashes of color on the
canvas, emotional and unrestrained. Landscapes are all about
what I see, but these…these are all about what I feel.
I won’t show them to anyone. They’re more like spiritual
vomit than art. I assume it’s a phase that will pass, but for now,
I’m into it.
It’s way cheaper than therapy. Works better, too.
David’s letter had me unsettled for a while, but by the time
December arrives, I’m in a place where I’m grateful for that
one last piece of contact. That final missive from beyond the
grave.
I’ve finally accepted that he’s never coming back.
Sloane was right: he had an accident. He went hiking that
morning and lost his footing. The trails were rough. The
terrain, steep. The canyons of the Sierras were carved by
ancient glaciers cutting through granite, and some of them
dive four thousand feet down from the peaks.
No matter how experienced he was in the wilderness, it
couldn’t save him from that one narrow stretch of rocky trail
that crumbled under his weight and gave way, sending him
tumbling down into oblivion.